Quite the dish

New (old) dishes.  Finally more than four.  And tiny coffee mugs to boot.

Shooting Stars

Glazed eyes rolled

Under slightly parted lids,

And lips that gasped,

Half glossed—

No time

(A whisper)

To count all

The stars in the sky.

And a raised crooked

Finger traced the blades

Of the unmoving fan

On the white ceiling—

Just pull one down,

(Her finger pinched the air)

Examine it close,

Drink in spectre’s light.

On my back next to her,

I closed my eyes,

And felt the star she plucked,

The warm blue fission glow,

Enveloping boil of the expanding

Twist, the surface turmoil.

She rolled over and rose.
Lit a small candle,
Emptied the pulsing star into

A battered tin spoon—

 Reach in, pull out core,

(Her hand hovered spoon over flame)

Swallow to taste

The new warmth spread in stomach.

Then holding my arm

In practiced motions,

Swift poke and the running

Shatter of nerves crept—

Blood replaced

(Push)

By streaming interstellar light,

Fill your lungs with Heaven’s breath.

Bending there beyond concept

Through each uncountable mile of vein,

Blue-eyed destroying angel smiled

And faded with my grip on the belt,

Until her presence was only

Ingested heavenly body and the blotted-out cosmos.